Scars
by heart-of-honey
Summary: A young pirate from omega is given a second chance in the Alliance Navy and is sent on an extraordinary journey across the galaxy, fighting geth, mercenaries and the fear of dying alone. Original characters in the mass effect universe.
1. The Theft of Men

In any definition of the word, humanity was a plague - perhaps not quite as unwanted as the Vorcha, or infuriating as Pyjaks but unwelcome all the same. In return for the council allowing the System's Alliance to continue their rapid advance across the Attican Traverse, human kind's military patrolled and policed some of the most dangerous frontiers in the galaxy - the divide between Citadel space and the lawless Terminus systems. Humans loved the adventure, the challenge, boldly colonizing the very frontier of civilization - a cutting edge into the dark and chaos on the other side. At least, this was how the Alliance sold it to their colony investors.

The reality was much different. Being so close to the Terminus systems, human frontier colonies were some of the unsafe colonies in the galaxy, but people still flocked there and people still invested. There were vast tracks of unclaimed and unexplored space here, and this was the center of humanity's industry. And of course, countless Alliance bases and the ever-present navy made most people feel safe enough.

She'd been a navy brat all her life. Born on a ship, a carrier transporting troops to a base out on the edge of the terminus, she was even delivered by medical personnel in Alliance uniform. Her father had many posts across this region of human innovation throughout her life - moving from place to place wasn't so bad, they always kept her father's company together and it was more like having a mobile family than having no roots, no home. There never was much trouble - what foolish pirates would try and raid an Alliance base, after all? They would risk incurring the wrath of the second largest military in Citadel space, after the Turians.

One night, when she was only fourteen years old, it happened. She was wrapped up warm in her bed, the cold nights of this barely habitable world seemed to penetrate even into their climate controlled dwelling. There was an unusual clanking sound from outside, muffled footsteps and voices. It wasn't uncommon to hear odd noises late at night in a navy base, so she turned over and tried to sleep. The banging grew louder. Sitting up in bed she frowned and tried to peer out the small window beside her bed, squinting into an impenetrable darkness. Darkness. Normally there were lights on in the compound twenty four seven as people worked in shifts, constantly coming and going at all hours of the day. The faint glow of specially dimmed flashlights cut through the dark in jerky swoops. A krogan in battered amour loomed alarmingly close to her lookout. Her breath halted - the massive creature looked out of place in a human compound where all the doors were made with people not much more than six foot five in mind. This beast was at least two foot proud of that. His lips were pulled back in a snarl, revealing the broad grinding teeth of a hardy plant eater, but threatening all the same. A couple of batarians, with their odd faces crammed with too many eyes and nostrils, were standing before him. They were carrying assault rifles, pistols strapped to their hips. She spotted another batarian using an omnitool, crouched down beside an electrical systems access point. They'd hacked the compounds energy supply and cut it dead, she realised, as she heard nothing but silence. The climate controls were offline. No wonder she was breathless -she'd assumed it was just fear wracking her body, rending her gasping for air. But no, the freezing, oxygen poor air was finding it's way in through the vent system and she was feeling light headed. Stumbling back from the window she thudded down onto the bed, and scrabbled down onto the floor on hands and knees. Remembering the emergency drill routine perfectly she rummaged under her bed and her fingers quickly grasped to a small metal box. Pulling the box from under the bed she opened it, deftly unlatching the catches and removing an oxygen pack and a facemask. Once the mask was secured over her face and a steady supply of air was flowing through the oxygen enrichment pack, she hurried over to the other side of the room. Flinging open the doors to her wardrobe she grabbed a cold weather envirosuit. She wondered briefly whether the others were doing the same, or were they slowly asphyxiating to death in their sleep? Hypoxia was a serious threat if the climate regulation systems were locked down. Perhaps these intruders had no idea they were slowly killing the occupants of the base. Or maybe that was the idea.

Once she had secured herself in the warm, soft environment suit she set about phase three of the emergency drill – once you had made sure you were safe, go check on others. Opening the door of her room, she tiptoed across the hall and lightly knocked on the opposite door.

"Mum?" she called softly, opening the door a crack. She heard the soft wheezing of someone starved of oxygen in their sleep. Hurrying clumsily to the side of the bed, she shook her mothers arm whilst at the same time trying to fish out the oxygen mask from under the bed.

"Mum, mum wake up. The life support is offline. Total systems failure," she said urgently in the sleeping woman's ear. Sharp blue eyes snapped open, but her mother knew better than to bolt upright in a panic. She lay calmly, breathing deeply to draw as much oxygen into her lungs until her daughter delivered the oxygen enrichment apparatus to her. Securing the mask over her face, her mother slowly sat up and glanced around.

"It's pitch black... Megan what's going on?" she asked gently, trying not to worry her daughter but at the same time feeling a horrible closing panic grip her throat.

"Why haven't the backup generators fired up?"

"I don't know mum… there's … I looked out my window, there's batarians, and a krogan. One of them was using an omnitool. I think they hacked the systems… I … I don't know." Megan shuddered, trying to shove away the one word crowding her mind over and over – slavers. The word didn't need to be said. Her mother picked up a small pistol from the bedside table and gripped it tightly. Once a military woman like her husband, Megan's mother retired to the weapons maintenance team after her leg was crippled in action, but she still knew how to shoot a pistol with terrifying accuracy.

"Come on sweetie, let's get going and see whether everyone else is-" a deafening bang cut off whatever she was going to say. The woman and the girl cowered in fear, as more banging rang through the building. Metallic clangs, a steady rhythm making it's way closer and closer. They retreated to a small bathroom, and hid in the shower unit, cowering in the corner. Megan's mother held the pistol aimed steadily at the door.

"Wake up sleepy heads! Come on, move it, form a line you dozy sacks of flesh!" a voice barked, harsh and unfamiliar. Megan could hear people begin to protest and young children whimpering and wailing sleepily, but a sharp snarl or bark from one of the slavers quickly quieted them. Megan was shaking now, pressed up against her mother. At least she was warm in her envirosuit, but it wouldn't do anything to protect her from physical harm. The banging sound became deafening and her mother pressed her hands against Megan's ears, more concerned to protect her daughter's hearing than her own. The door slammed open, and two batarians burst into the room, one held a leashed varren who lunged and snarled, salivating in excitement. They held assault rifles, but not the clean well-polished Alliance Military standard issue type weapons. No, these were ugly brutes of things, their parts cannibalized from other weapons and thrown together in a hasty fashion, the projects of a grizzly tinkerer between raids. The bayonet attachments gleamed in the dim light, blood staining the blades crimson.

"Where are they you stinking creature?" one of the batarians yelled, booting the varren in the rump. The animal yelped and snarled but quickly turned its snout downwards, huge creepy eyes staring around the room. Suddenly it leapt forwards, snarling and barking like a deranged dog. The batarians moved, hefting their weapons.

"Get up! Move it!" the first one shouted, ramming the butt of his gun against Megan's mother, slamming her shoulder into the shower tiling. She hissed in pain and pointed the pistol straight at the batarian, but she daren't pull the trigger. If she killed one of them, they would more than certainly take out their anger on her daughter.

"Boss! We got a fighter in this room!" the second batarian yelled over his- her- it's shoulder. Megan had never been able to tell the difference, never come into contact with these strange aliens often enough. A looming figure appeared in the doorway, the krogan from outside. He looked even more enormous in the too-small room. Growling, he sneered at the two humans cowering on the floor.

"A cripple with a pistol, how cute," his rumbling voice reverberated in his massive chest, rebounding off the metal walls. Reaching forwards he lifted her mother up with one giant, clawed hand. The solid muscles rippled in his arm under thick hide. Krogan were nothing but sinew and leather, Megan thought.

"What do you do, _human_?" he growled in her face, narrow red eyes glaring at her.

"Weapons maintenance," she replied, keeping the fear out of her voice. Megan couldn't help but admire her mother's resolve, but wished so desperately her father was here to put a bullet in the Krogan's skull. The krogan laughed, a deep guttural sound that was anything but amusing. Megan winced as the batarians grabbed her arms and yanked her to her feet.

"We won't get a good price for a tinkerer with bad leg. And you're too old and used up for the … specialist market," he snarled, prodding her breasts with his claw. He tossed Megan's mother aside like a ragdoll and she hit the floor hard, knocking the wind from her.

"Mum! No! Leave her alone, she can work!" Megan thrashed in her captors grip, but they were so much stronger than her and easily pushed her towards the door where a line of terrified base personnel was filing down the hall.

"Mum!" her scream echoed all around the metal walls, but the sound of a gunshot drowned out even her cries. She squeezed her eyes shut, not wanting the image of her mother's limp, dead form burned into her memory. Instead the sound of bloody gurgling as her mother choked on her punctured lung would play inside her head over and over for the rest of her life. She joined the line, not resisting when the slavers cuffed her hands behind her back and linked her up to a chain that joined the whole line of people. Briefly she wondered where the soldiers were – but this was only a small maintenance facility, a rest point for patrols that scoured the skies of the Attican Traverse. If they'd tossed aside and shot her mother for simply pointing a pistol at them, what had they done to the few guards and soldiers posted here on watch? She daren't think about it any more, and she submitted to a mindless plod, left foot right foot. She looked at no one, staring at the ground, knowing it would probably be the last time she set foot in human territory.


	2. Beginning at the End

It was a badly lit warehouse with overturned crates dispersed between broken sofas and scuffed tables making the bulk of the furniture. A few data pads were strewn around, carelessly tossed aside by their owners. There was a stench of sweat, and alcohol, and other alien odors that were indefinable but now so familiar to Megan's senses. She fidgeted uncomfortably and rubbed the scars on her wrist from many months of shackles that had rubbed the skin raw. The mercenaries trusted the girls enough not to try and run off anymore – or maybe they stopped caring. She sighed heavily, her swollen belly crushing her lungs – it was getting harder to breathe these last few weeks.

After their capture, the slavers had taken their latest haul to a processing facility not far from the boarder in the Terminus systems. The strong and able bodied had been moved on quickly, murmurs of high prices to be paid for these perfect laborers. Then the women were sorted, and they had come under much higher scrutiny. Those too old to be deemed attractive by the humans that had been assigned to inspect them (Megan deduced they were not part of the group who had captured them but were definitely working alongside them as willing business partners, something which made her feel sick even now to think of) had been argued over for a long time. Some of the slavers didn't want to go to the trouble of trying to shift this unwanted stock, but others were determined that human women made good personal slaves. In the end the argument was settled and they too had been moved on for sale. Then the young, supple women, the beautiful twenty somethings that were instantly taken away to work in bars and clubs and whorehouses – this just left the children, like Megan. It was decided the youngest would be dumped at an orphanage, after some gentle coaxing to get the leader not to airlock them. The men of the slaver group, hungrily pawing their soft flesh were set upon Megan and the other teenage girls. They were taken as pets of the slaver men, humans who had lost their humanity somewhere in this big, unfriendly galaxy. After the slavers were done dividing the spoils, the girls were taken to Omega, a space station carved out of an asteroid. It was the hellhole of the galaxy, ruled by dangerous mercenary gangs. But it had become their only home.

She sighed again, shifting her position on the meager mattress she'd been provided. They let her wash the sheet with a bucket of water sometimes, but bloodstains are hard to remove. She thought of the girls she'd come to think of as friends, the ones she'd lost, and those that sat nearby now. Only a handful of them remained, as their 'owners' had become bored and disposed of them, or they'd succumbed to disease. Megan's master was a muscular, sharp-faced man known as Slice. He knew how to keep good enough care of his pets to keep them alive, but showed little interest beside throwing her the odd scraps of food and the irregular rapings. He didn't like to keep a schedule – Megan had overheard him telling his friends – he liked to keep the bitches guessing. Even the rapes had mostly stopped now that her pregnancy was so obvious. Only one other girl had become pregnant during their captivity, but she had died before the child was born. Most of the other girls were too malnourished by now. She crawled over to the girl called Hannah in a pile of rugs next to her and touched her hand. The girl peered up at her curiously, but neither made a sound. The gang didn't like it when the girls talked. They curled up close to one another for comfort and warmth both pressing their hands to Megan's warm taught belly, and finding a small joy in the kicking form within. Closing their eyes, the girls intently listened to the shouts and laughter and sounds of sparring that filled this dingy warehouse in the guts of Omega, the end of everything.

Stabbing pains plagued her throughout the night, and she buried herself ever tighter to the rugs where she had curled up against Hannah. As the night wore on, nothing improved. It was more of a rolling, deep-pitted pain in her abdomen now, which spread across her back and her thighs like a fiery heat. Megan knew what was happening, but it terrified her to admit it, so she tried to go back to sleep. But Hannah knew what was happening too, feeling the movement of Megan's body under her hand. Eventually she had to admit that it wasn't going to go away, and Megan stirred from the rugs and hunkered down. She let out a moan at one point, the pain so intense it forced the air from her lungs, but one of the batarians threw a bottle in their direction and she remembered to keep her mouth clamped shut. It was terrifying, an agony more intense than anything she thought possible to feel, and the minutes seemed to drag into long sweat drenched hours. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, Megan held a tiny squealing baby. She was instantly overwhelmed with love for this child she hadn't wanted, with a man she was abused by and she resented. Despite it all, she had something of her very own to hold on to in this desolate place.

Slice was horrified when he came to find Megan a few days later – his child was squirming in her thin arms.

"What the fuck is this?" he raged, slamming his fist against the metal container Megan, Hannah and the baby were sheltering in. The girls cowered, and Megan shielded her baby's head with her arm, fiercely protective. She felt an animal rage bubbling up within her.

"This is your son, Slice. Say hello to your baby," she snapped back at him, stroking the infant's fine wispy blonde hair.

"The fuck am I; you're just another used up bitch now aren't you? I don't need you anymore, get the fuck out of there!" he shouted, grabbing her arm and yanking her away. She let go of the baby, letting Hannah snatch him up. The last thing she wanted was for Slice to harm her child. He struck her across the face, sneering at her,

"What do we do with used up rags?" he chuckled, striking her again. He threw her down and beat her some more. She yelped and cried, her body still sore and aching from giving birth only a few days ago. Suddenly a gunshot cracked through the air making Slice pause and the crowd that was gathering wavered, unsure of whether to stay or feign ignorance. The enormous shadow of a Krogan passed over her.

"What's going on here?" the krogan's voice rumbled, a sound that Megan was no longer terrified by; she was only in awe of these massive beasts. She recognized him as Rox Thresher, the leader of the mercenary group that kept them captive. His scarred face and massive, tough facial crest lead her to guess he was quite old, and the other mercenaries cowered away from him in respect, admiration but mostly fear.

"This little bitch is worthless to me. She's a waste of space with a suckling brat," Slice snapped, daring to square up to his leader. Rox narrowed his eyes, baring his teeth in an animal expression. To Megan, Krogan were more like dinosaurs than real, sapient people. But the fact he was standing here talking in front of her reminded her otherwise.

"We do not strike our women," Rox snarled, getting up close to Slice, their faces almost touching. The human male looked so tiny and pathetic next to the krogan, but Slice was a stubborn cunt and refused to back down.

"Yeah, says who?" he laughed, straightening up to his full height and puffing out his chest. It was strange how humans tried to make themselves larger in anger, but krogan simply coiled into themselves, like snakes about to strike. Only they weren't snakes, they were near a ton of pure muscle waiting to barrel into whatever opposed them, banishing arguments with brute strength.

"I say!" the krogan roared, slamming his fist on his hard plated chest. His expansive voice filled the room like a force of nature.

"Women are not to be struck, do I make myself clear?" he growled quieter now, his glare burning into Slice.

"Oh boohoo, Mr. women's rights. You're a fucking sap for a krogan." Before anyone could blink, Thresher had slammed into Slice, his broad head crest smashing into the human's seemingly pathetic frame. The crunch of bones told the onlookers that the man's ribs had snapped.

"You disgust me, human," Thresher growled low, and then turned on Hannah.

"Show me the child," he instructed, peering curiously at the small pink thing squirming in the human girl's arms. The krogan had never seen a baby human, hell, he couldn't even remember the last time he saw a krogan baby. Megan stood up cautiously and limped towards the other girl, taking her baby from her and clutching him tight. The small child squealed, pleased to be against it's mother again. The krogan's expression softened, if you ever could say a krogan looked soft.

"It's not his fault. I will never understand human obsessions with keeping you women as pets. A krogan woman is no more powerful than a male, but she talks and she thinks. They are our greatest adversaries, you understand?" he smiled then, possibly the oddest thing Megan had ever seen in her short life.

"I'm very old you know. We krogan live a long time… I have not sired a child for over a century. I will protect this infant, if you will allow it. Not that there is much else for you," he ended the speech with a slight snarl, knowing full well that there was nowhere else to go for the young human girls. The other gang members had dispersed now, having dragged away Slice's lifeless, broken body.

"I may be a krogan, but I'm no savage," he said quietly, the words more of a rumble in his chest than words from his lips. Megan nodded dumbly, mouthing her thanks Rox Thresher.

That night Megan cried as Hannah held her, helped her take care of her child. She still hadn't named him - she didn't really feel like she ever would have to. All she could do was cry now – despite the fact she hated Slice for raping and abusing her for two years now, he was the only reason she was still alive, and had given her this beautiful baby to call her own. He was dead now, and her purpose in this place was lost. Her child had lost his father too and she wept for her own father, who she knew she would never see again.


	3. Duct Rat

Darz squatted, peering curiously out of the darkness that concealed him. Ragged hand-me-down clothes clung to his lithe frame, bits of old armor from the mercenaries he lived amongst salvaged for a makeshift fourteen year old's protective gear. He was lean and wide-eyed, a perfectly designed duct rat in this vast, unforgiving place. But he was streetwise and had survived longer than many whores' brats. It helped to be under the protectorate of a mercenary lord too, though. Not that Rox Thresher ever threw the scrap of a boy much without a reason. He was a runner for the Black Star, the mercenary group that Thresher lead. Being a nonthreatening little human boy, he was often sent to collect small deliveries, and owed money. No one suspected the fourteen year old to pull a switchblade and press it to their jugular with lightning speed. He smirked and fingered through a pile of trash, looking for anything useful or of value. Nothing but used contraceptives (he didn't even know what kind of convoluted penis would need some of these shapes), and old needles stood out in the pile of other nondescript junk. He scowled in displeasure, grey eyes darting alertly. Suddenly he dashed out of cover, intercepting a passing salarian.

"Hey, you. Where's Thresher's pay? You promised the credits to him by the end of last week. I don't see no credits. You want us to come smash up your store, salarian? Is that what you want?" Darz snarled, toying with his sheathed blade in his baggy pocket. The salarian jerked and stammered, trying to sidestep the boy. But he was always two steps ahead, despite dancing backwards through the crowd.

"I-I-I-I don't know what you're talking about kid, l-leave me be, I'm v-v-v-very busy," the salarian stammered, typical hyperactive bastards, Darz thought. He held out his hand, a smirk crossing his face. Under the childish puppy fat, he had a sharp jawbone and piercing eyes. Darz looked old beyond his years. Putting a foot out, he tripped the salarian. The slender amphibious looking creature tumbled to the floor, it's spindly arms sprawled all around. The teenager leapt on the stricken salarian, and flicked open his switch blade near where he guessed it's ear was – he didn't know, he didn't care much for biology that wasn't his own.

"Give me the money. Now," he snarled, an animalistic character emerging from behind his humanness - a side effect from living amongst krogan and vorcha for his whole life, perhaps. The salarian began to shudder, short sharp breaths making ragged sounds in its chest.

"I don't have the money!" it squealed, squirming under the human, but Darz was heavy enough to weigh down the slight creature underneath him.

"I'm broke, please, I'll do anything the krogan wants just don't kill me!" he wailed. The people walking by didn't even give them a second glance. Sights like this were common in the more shady parts of Omega. Not that any of it was particularly bright, but the more affluent areas liked to do their dirty work in a bit more style.

"Well this makes my life a whole lot easier," Darz purred, grabbing one of the salarian's curved horns. He pulled his head back, and dragged the knife across his throat. Then he jumped off the salarian's back and bounded into the dark alleyways that he knew like the back of his hand, a map inside his head telling him of every short cut and open vent. The salarian twitched, convulsed, and bled out in a pool of green blood. People stepped around the pool as if it was a puddle of water, or maybe a leak of coolant from the station's vast piping systems.

He popped out of a vent, dropping neatly to the floor of the warehouse. Loping across the room he ignored the stares of the scattered mercenaries. Most didn't like him much, just some annoying kid that entertained the boss, but some found him useful to use as their errand boy. He could get around the station faster than most, dashing through vents and climbing pipes up and down through the vast decks. Some even felt a little bit sorry for the boy – his mother had died when he was only eight, having eaten foul food from a garbage can. After Slice died the mercs quickly became disinterested with trying to keep her alive but the boy, Thresher had even given him his clan name of Rox, was not to be abandoned. He scampered up alongside Thresher now, his honorary father.

"I killed that slippery little salarian you sent me after," Darz said in a matter of fact way, perching himself on a precariously stacked pile of crates like some kind of scrappy bird. The children that grew up in the streets of Omega were miniature acrobats, but their tricks often got them hurt or even killed.

"Very good," the krogan rumbled, handing the boy a grease soaked burger and a broken data pad to play with. Darz wolfed down the food with his hands, still squatting on his perch. Then he wiped the grease off his hands on his shirt and inspected the data pad turning the sleek item this way and that, his sharp eyes scrutinizing. He popped off the casing and his fingers worked at the circuitry inside and soon the orange glow of the screen lit up.

"Crappy soldering came loose, pushed it back in, should work now Thresher," the boy piped, pleased with himself. The krogan just nodded. A long, thoughtful pause followed, with the krogan staring into the distance in a calculating manner.

"Darz, my boy. I think it'll be time soon for you to board one of the ships. We have good pickings of the Attican merchants these days, after we pushed back those Blue Suns bastards. We need as many space worthy crew as can be found, and I think you're up for the job, don't you?" the krogan always adopted an amiable tone with the teenager, but to the rest of his gang he was cold, calculating and un-wavering. Darz shrugged and cocked his head.

"Suppose. Never been in a ship, would I be any good?" he asked, boyish uncertainty in his voice. The krogan laughed, an expansive rumbling sound.

"You can kill people, can't you?"


End file.
